


Reach God Through Suffering

by isaac richard (isaacrichard)



Category: Fight Club (1999)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Masochism, Other, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Unhealthy Relationships, Watersports, a lot of god talk, givin it all up. for tyler durden, just bad overall etiquette. you know how these fuckers are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24616843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaacrichard/pseuds/isaac%20richard
Summary: The Narrator reflects on Tyler Durden."I love you," I tell him. “Not the way one loves a romantic partner, but the way you’re supposed to love your deity of choice. You could crush my life in your hands, and I love you for it.”It isn't exactly pretty.
Relationships: Tyler Durden/Marla Singer, Tyler Durden/Narrator
Comments: 11
Kudos: 53





	Reach God Through Suffering

**Author's Note:**

> :)

If there was a time before Tyler – I’m glad I don’t remember it.

Realistically, I know it’s still there: my old neatly wrapped life, stamped with an IKEA-brand bow. The one Tyler blew to smithereens. I haven’t forgotten, in the typical sense. I just choose to ignore it.

I ignore it, and it’s effectively gone. Tyler is my life – him, and of course, fight club. And unfortunately, occasionally, Marla. Tyler seems to have gotten sick of her, so she doesn’t come around as much, but she will slink into my bed some nights. Like a stray cat that keeps getting inside… I wonder if we could set Marla traps.

By the way – we don’t fuck when she visits. I barely even touch her.

It occurs to me that this probably makes me the new Marla – _I am Tyler Durden’s current fucktoy_ – but you know what? I don’t care. I’ve given it up. I’ve hit bottom – several times this week already, actually.

Tyler hurts me. He hurts me bad – I ache after he fucks me. I bleed. He fucks me ‘til I’m raw and weeping, the most vulnerable I’ve been in my life. Spread across my sagging mattress like butter on toast. He drills me until I’m putty, so limp in my muscles that I can barely keep my head up.

And afterward, I sleep like a fucking log. I’ve decided, if it’s catharsis through Tyler Durden’s dick, so fucking be it. I’ve never felt so free.

I am Jack’s wrecked asshole.

We make soap. Tyler Durden burns my hands with lye. I take it, and he kisses me through it, like some strange, intimate mating ritual.

_“New research shows that males of a type of ground spider known as_ Micaria sociabilis _also eat females, and scientists are trying to figure out what motivates this behavior…”_

I want Tyler Durden to rip my head off and swallow me whole. I want to feel his teeth sink into my skin. I want to be devoured. I want to bleed. I want –

“I think this batch should sell nicely.” Tyler is looking over his work, which, as always, is pristine. I reckon Tyler Durden would excel at anything he chose to do. Since he chose soap, he makes a nice fucking soap.

I don’t reply. I run my fingertips over my newest lye scar, still just a few weeks old. I don’t get them often, but I do get them. Tyler likes to remind me that I’m alive. I submit because I like to be reminded.

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?” Tyler purrs. I practically hear the starting gun fire.

I am Jack’s inability to win Tyler Durden’s mind games.

“No,” I lie. “I’m a blank slate.”

Tyler laughs. I wonder how long he’ll let me get away with this for.

“Behave yourself,” he threatens, but he’s flashing me his sharp shark’s grin. 

I am Jack’s cherry red cheeks.

How, after all this time – _how long has it been? How long has it been since you blew up my house? –_ he still manages to embarrass me, I don’t know. But he does.

I am Jack’s obscenely tented jeans.

We drink beer.

It’s the disgusting cheap stuff, and it’s always warm. Tyler smashes his bottles as he finishes them, throws the shards into the dead, black lawn. Nothing lives out here, except for Tyler and me.

I belch into the quiet twilight. Tyler approves.

He’s headed towards drunk, and I am still only comfortably tipsy. I didn’t drink much. I drink more, now – but still less than Tyler. He is a warm, happy drunk, curled up with his knees to his chest and his head on my shoulder. He’s cute, like this. I’m never sure, but I do think he’s biologically younger than me.

“You know,” Tyler slurs, his hand coming up to play with my hair. I’m slightly balding already, as the men in my family have shitty hair genes. But it was thick, once. Girls in high school used to like to play with it, just as Tyler does now.

“Fermented oats have been used for centuries, to bring God and Man together.”

Of all the things he could have said – I’m caught. I’m caught red-handed. And how did I think I was going to get away with it? He’s me – I’m him. Right? What can I possibly hide? What can you keep from yourself?

In any case, he can pull down any flimsy mental walls I try and put up.

Tyler Durden is all-seeing.

_Mark 15:34: And at the ninth hour, Jesus shouted in a loud voice, " **Eloi** , **Eloi** , **lama sabachthani**?"_

**_"My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?"_ **

Tyler runs his soft fingers over my lower stomach, bare where my shirt rides up. A mosquito bugs at us both – summer is coming, the first signs of her in the uptick in insects. It’ll probably bite me, with my luck.

You don’t expect Tyler Durden to have soft hands and fingers – you expect them to be ragged, skin hardened from landing punch after punch after punch. But Tyler makes soap all day, and the softness can’t be washed off. My hands are beginning to become the same, since he’s gotten me in on his liposuction soap scheme. I’m glad for it.

I am Jack’s morphing reflection.

One of my latest _Digests_ had an article on _erogenous zones,_ or areas of the human body with increased sensitivity. Ears. Neck. Inner wrist and knee. Dick and pussy, of course, but more than that. Seemingly innocent parts of the human body that crave outside stimulation – and Tyler has apparently found one of mine.

I push against him, and I whine. I hate that he makes me sound like this – like a goddamn bitch having puppies. But he does – dear God, he does. His fingers dance across my stomach – dipping dangerously close to the line of my underwear.

“Do you worship me?” Tyler’s words are as soft as his hands – but I freeze. I’m cradling him, but he’s still in control.

I worship Tyler Durden.

He’s washing the dishes: I worship the creases of his hands. He’s crafting soap: I worship the furrow of his brow. I worship his dick, for Christ’s sake – I worship his power. I worship the shape of his nose under the washcloth when he bathes.

He fucks Marla – I listen, and I worship the sounds he makes.

He fucks me – I worship the skin-on-skin-on-skin, on the rhythmic pull-and-slide of being fucked in the ass.

I was gay, before – I didn’t advertise it, but I was. I say “was”, because I’ve been with a lot of men, but am now exclusively available to Tyler. And I am reasonably certain there is no man on earth like Tyler Durden. Tyler Durden is a god.

Tyler Durden is _my_ god, and I worship him like my life depends on it. Because it does.

I am Jack’s unholy thoughts.

Club remains the same. If anyone is aware the dynamic between Tyler and I has shifted, they don’t voice it. The Angel Face kid seems to smell something – but he’s not a talker. I’d like to get my dick in that hot little number – but I don’t belong to me, anymore.

I am Tyler Durden’s.

The club begins, and Tyler recites the rules: our own personal Ten Commandments. A distinctly religious feeling covers the room, and a hush follows it.

Tyler Durden commands a room like – I want to say Hitler, but we’re all here of our free will. Is Jesus Christ too on the nose?

We do feel like Disciples, the way we toddle behind Tyler. Does that make me Judas, or John?

In any case, Tyler Durden commands a room. The fight begins, as does the howling and bleeding and sweating. Unfulfilled men getting a taste of hot, pulsing life. The air tastes like electric, even down here. Like a storm is brewing.

Tyler crowds me into a corner, licking his chops – he’s obscene. He’s pornographic, in his tight mesh shirt and jean shorts. How the rest of these guys haven’t figured out he’s a fag, I’ll never know.

“Because my every word reeks of masculine glory,” Tyler informs me. “These guys don’t care if you’re gay or straight – so long as you have the confidence to make them tuck their dick between their legs and cower. It’s a power trip.”

“Is that why I bottom?” I’m toeing a line, and I catch the flash in Tyler’s eyes. He gives me a shove too hard to be considered playful.

“I’ll let you fuck me sometime, sweetheart. If you’re real good,” he growls, shoving me up against the cold concrete wall. The fight continues behind us – the howling is louder, now. Someone is about to tap out – or need a new set of teeth.

I could shove back – but I don’t, because while there are fights happening behind us, this doesn’t count. When I fight, I need to win. I need to break bone and split skin. Here, I need to be broken. The best winners also know how to lose.

_Fighting or fucking…_

Tyler’s teeth clack against mine with the – not kiss, exactly. He inhales my mouth and bites at my lips, and I moan into his mouth. I taste his sweat where it beads under his nose. He smells like his t-shirt had recently gone to the laundromat – I wonder if Marla took him there.

I decide I would most certainly die for Tyler Durden. I would probably kill for him, too.

_I am Jack’s savior complex._

_Romans 12:1: …present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God…_

I want him to fuck me right here, right now, on the dirty basement floor, with men fighting all around us. I want to have an audience when he rips me apart.

“Bad idea, baby,” Tyler tells me, sucking a hot, wet hickey into the side of my neck, smack under my ear. I tilt my head - inviting him to mark me more. 

And I know, Tyler, I know. It’s only a fantasy.

“Don’t let your dreams get ahead of you,” he warns. “Or we’ll be dealing with another one of me.”

“Are you okay?” Marla’s baby doll face is in the door, and Tyler is nowhere to be found. I can hear the shower running – but who knows if he just turned it on as a distraction. All I know is, I need him, and he’s not around.

“Fine. Please leave,” I say, stiff. Marla Singer has never clicked with me, to be as clear cut as I can be. I don’t like the bitch.

“It’s just,” she whines. “I haven’t _seen_ you. I’m afraid you’re dead, all alone in this disaster area you call home.”

_I’m not alone,_ I think, but don’t say. Marla curls around the doorframe, showing off her smooth legs and full breasts. If it wasn’t for those alien-eyes and the Betty Boop voice, she might be somewhat attractive.

“Lemme in,” she pleads, batting her eyelashes. I feel like the piggie with the straw house.

As if on command, my big bad wolf appears. “Marla,” he greets, and Marla looks startled. She wasn’t expecting him.

“Yes?”

“I’m gonna need you to get going,” he says easily, blocking the path. He has the bravado I never will, and it’s immensely hot. 

“What!” Marla shrieks, demands, stamps her foot, and nearly drives a hole in the rotting porch’s wood with her heel. It occurs to me she’s just another monkey, like Tyler and myself. Her motivations differ, but the core feral fear – that’s the same.

Tyler doesn’t repeat himself. He rarely does.

Marla gets huffy and screechy, screaming at the top of her lungs about psycho boys. She does leave, though, and Tyler sucks at his teeth as he shuts the door. He flips me, from where I’ve been cowering behind him, and presses me against the now-shut door. He lines up his dick with my ass, like he’s going to fuck me through our clothes.

“I’m filing a restraining order,” he mutters into the sweat of my neck. As if the police would serve Tyler Durden.

My knight in shining tracksuit pants.

“I worship you,” I tell him resolutely. _I always have._

Maybe I’m crazy. Probably, most likely, I’m nuts, and Tyler is a hallucination with superb dick skills.

I don’t care. I’ve never cared.

_We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world._

Tyler fucks me. We make soap, we drink beer. Tyler fucks me. We make soap, we drink beer. Tyler fucks me –

“What are you waiting for?” he asks me, breath hot in my ear. He’s been fucking me for hours now. Something is dripping somewhere, in this broken house. It echoes in my head, along with the _slap-slap-slap_ of barebacked fucking. “Don’t you know this is it?”

_Is my hallucination going to fuck me senseless for the rest of my days?_

I wonder how I ended up here. Childhood is a haze – mom drunk; dad left. Did daddy fuck me? Is that why I’m so hard up for a man to tell me what to do? Freud would have a field day with that one.

Or maybe it’s Big Brother who's fucked me – and fucked us all. Blame society for my fiendish sexual deviance.

_I am Jack’s uncouth preferences._

Once, Tyler sucks a tooth out of my mouth. I had fought that day, and the pressure of his kiss pulled it right out of me. He spat it across the room – a piece of me, and he’d thrown it away like nothing. When he kissed me again, he poked at the open wound with his tongue.

I nearly came in my pants.

With Tyler, there’s no line to cross. Everything is a challenge.

“I have to piss,” I say. We're a few beers in – and the pressure had been building, mother nature was calling, et cetera. I have to piss.

“No, you don’t,” Tyler says coolly, tightening his arms around my waist. He says it so coolly, I almost believe him.

“What? Yes, I do. Lemme go piss,” I say, trying to wriggle away. “I’ll be right back, lonely.”

“No,” Tyler repeats, calm. His nails dig into the soft skin of my sides. “Stay seated.”

It is not a request.

A shiver goes down my spine – landing directly into my bladder. Now that all my attention is on needing to piss, it makes it that much worse. I have to cross my legs, and I’m deeply, embarrassingly aware of the way my bottom half is shaking.

I should have just gotten up without announcing it. _Jesus, Mary and Joseph._

“Tyler…” I whine. “I’m gonna –“

“Piss yourself?” he asks, pushing himself up and looking me in my eyes. His gaze burns me, like a faceful of chlorine might.

He grabs my thighs, forcing me towards him. I look away, and he grabs my chin, hard, no doubt leaving bruises behind. He forces me to look, eyes gleaming terribly.

“Probably. Tell me though – what does it matter if you do?”

“It’s humiliating,” I whisper, voice cracking. Choking on nothing. I can’t breathe, and my bladder aches so badly. I’m really going to piss my pants – something I haven’t done since I was four years old – because of, and for the pleasure of, Tyler Durden.

I think it's important to note that I _could_ shove him off and shuffle to the toilet, if I cared to. We've fought enough times that I know I'm physically stronger than Tyler Durden.

I don't.

I wait and I shift, but I don't shove him off.

“Yes,” he says. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s a blip in the wink of time that is your life and mine. No one will know.”

If he’s trying to make me feel better, it’s almost working. Who do I know who’d even remotely care? Not Marla, the dirty bitch. Not the Project kids. Who am I holding out for? Who do I cling to dignity for, and why?

Why don’t I give in?

“D’ya need help?” he mutters, and that’s the worst. _Do you need help to piss yourself?_

I am the wet spot on the front of Jack’s jeans.

“Oh, _please – !“_

I don’t know what I’m begging for, exactly. Release, or relief – not for Tyler to let me use to toilet, surely. No, we’re much too far in this now. He’ll get what he wants, even if it happens to be seeing me in wet pants.

I’m in real pain at this point, and crossing my legs is no longer cutting it. Tyler reaches out and presses a hand against my stomach – and that’s it. I lose the fight.

“Give in,” Tyler says. “Give up.”

And I do. Once it starts, the flood doesn’t stop for a long, long time. Warmth runs down my legs and pools at my feet.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ –“ I’m writhing, certainly. Maybe crying, maybe moaning. Tyler holds me down.

“Give up,” he repeats. I squirm – I don’t want this to happen, despite it happening. I’m leaking badly, piss quickly dampening the seat of my jeans. It’s not slowing down, and Tyler presses harder against me. I'm hot all over - I'm going to burn up in front of him, left as a pile of ash.

I can’t make it stop, though I try hard to clamp down – stop whatever valve has sprung open. Tyler doesn’t care.

“Let your instincts take over.”

_If monkeys had pants, would they know enough not to piss them?_

_“ Diurnal enuresis is daytime wetting (functional daytime urinary incontinence)…”_

God – fucking _Jesus –_

Tyler just can’t fuck like normal, huh? What would be the fun in safe, sane, and consensual? No, Tyler lives like an animal. Tyler fucks like an animal.

Tyler will probably die like an animal, beaten to death by his own kind.

Or I will.

_Mark 14:65: Then some began to spit at him; they blindfolded him, struck him with their fists, and said, "Prophesy!" And the guards took him and beat him._

There’s a puddle under me. I ignore it – because I’m still in the midst of pissing myself. It runs down my legs – thighs – feet – toes. It’s uncomfortable. It smells. It’s not particularly hot, but I’m gonna cum as soon as I’m finished. I’m being ruined, in a new, different way.

 _That’s_ what I get off on. I’m nothing. I’m Tyler’s. I am an object.

I am Jack’s soaked underwear.

I go to cover my face – the embarrassment is too much. Tyler holds me in place, stares into my large, teary eyes.

“Finish,” he whispers. _How in God’s name did he know?_

I finish. I empty my bladder into my jeans and underwear, and it seeps into the seat under me. I shiver.

“Good,” Tyler says, and leaves me to clean myself up – and jerk myself off, too.

_I am Jack’s unabashed masochism._

_I love you,_ I tell him. _Not the way one loves a romantic partner, but the way you’re supposed to love your deity of choice. You could crush my life in your hands, and I love you for it._

“I know,” Tyler replies. He kisses me, and it’s gentle, gentle, gentle.

I worship. I pray. I am Mary Magdalene at the feet of Christ - he can have my hair, and anything else he wants, too. 

_1 Corinthians 11:24: ...and when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, "This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me."_

Break me into pieces, Tyler. Eat of my flesh, and let it be holy.

And, by God, he does.

_I am Jack’s inflated sense of satisfaction._

**Author's Note:**

> im going to hell lol


End file.
